


Uncle

by Beleriandings



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-02
Updated: 2013-10-02
Packaged: 2017-12-28 06:30:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,209
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/988829
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Beleriandings/pseuds/Beleriandings
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Maeglin briefly meets Fingon before the Nirnaeth Arnoediad.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Uncle

“Come, Maeglin” Turgon had said, taking him by surprise. “I am going to speak with my brother. I would like you to meet him.”

And so, Maeglin had gone with the small party that Turgon had assembled to where the host of the High King stood, the light of early morning glinting off rows of bright helmets, the blue and silver banners fluttering in the gentle breeze. He had looked away, embarrassed, trying not to stare as Turgon had greeted his brother, gripping each other’s forearms awkwardly. Turgon’s voice was quick and quiet and halting, but Fingon’s seemed to fairly burst with suppressed joy, even as he tried to maintain his kingly solemnity. Maeglin felt suddenly as if he were intruding onto something more personal than he had any right to witness.

But then Turgon was calling him over, introducing him. And he was standing before his uncle, and it was as if Fingon had stepped out of his mother’s stories of her childhood. Fingon was not as tall as he had imagined him, standing short of Turgon and even Maeglin himself, although he was broader. But in every other particular he looked exactly as Maeglin had always imagined, down to the gold threads braided into his thick, dark hair. With a stab of memory, Maeglin recognised his mother in Fingon’s face, the resemblance more obvious in the shape of his eyes and the smile pulling at the corners of his mouth than it was with Turgon. And yet, thought Maeglin, Fingon also seemed every bit the valiant King whose brave and noble deeds were spoken of even in Gondolin. Maeglin cleared his throat, suddenly nervous, unsure of how to address his uncle. But he did not have to, as Fingon spoke first.

“Maeglin.” He seemed to linger over the name, as though testing its sound. “It is an honour to meet you.” Then, before Maeglin knew what was going on, Fingon was smiling, and pulling Maeglin into a clumsy hug, made awkward by the bulky armour they both wore. Then Fingon drew back, holding him at arms’ length and scrutinising his face thoughtfully.

“I had not known until now that my sister had a son” he continued. “But I am certain that she would be proud, seeing you here, now.”

“I – I hope so” said Maeglin lamely. He drew himself up a little taller. “But I would be proud to fight alongside you, my King, even if you were not my mother’s brother.” And, he realised, it was true.

Fingon smiled broadly, and clapped him on the shoulder. “I am glad to hear it. We will have much to talk about after the battle is over.” He darted a quick glance at the eastern horizon, a slight cloud of worry crossing his face. “But now, you should both go back to your people. They will need two such as you, however the fighting goes.”

With a last, tense smile, Fingon bid them farewell, clasping hands with first Turgon and then Maeglin. Back at the front of the host of Gondolin, Maeglin craned his neck a little apprehensively towards Fingon’s host, trying to see what was going on.

“After this is over,” mused Turgon quietly, “then perhaps you will meet him properly. And perhaps I…”

He did not say any more, and Maeglin did not ask.

———

Maeglin hacked and slashed with his sword, the orc before him falling dead at his feet, only to be replaced by two more. The first moments of the battle had been a whirl of spiralling panic, his sword arm shooting out to parry the blows desperately, every lesson in sword technique he had ever had suddenly disappearing from his mind, a mad grasping at survival. But now he was becoming used to it, muscles responding to the attack by sending his sword arcing out at the enemy with something that could almost be a deadly grace.

Nevertheless, he was beginning to tire now, his breath coming in ragged, painful bursts, his heart pounding in his ears. There were so many, he thought, suddenly seeing a new flood of swarming black figures issue from over a ridge not far away. In that instant of distraction, he felt a sharp pain in his left shoulder. He summoned what remained of his strength, trying to breathe as deeply as he could, and swung his sword again, beheading the orc before him with a single clean blow, a savage cry issuing from his mouth without his intent. He looked around him, hurriedly. Raising his hand to his shoulder, he grimaced, as it came away red and sticky. That had been too close. While he had been looking away, the point of the orc’s sword had caught the gap at the shoulder of his armour. It had been a glancing, ill-aimed blow, and the wound was shallow, he guessed, but there seemed to be a lot of blood, more than there should be… he swallowed nervously, trying not to think about what would happen if he were to collapse from loss of blood now.  _No_ , he told himself. He would not let that happen. He swung his sword again, the black metal scything through flesh with a sickening crunching sound. Then he cried out, as thick, muscled arms like iron bands closed around his shoulders and lifted him bodily off the ground. He was being carried from behind, and he struggled and fought in the grip of the huge orc that held him, but to no avail. He began to panic, thrashing and kicking out with his legs, his sword useless in his hand, clamped to the side of his body in that terrible grip. Memories of every tale he had heard of captivity in Angband began to crowd his mind unbidden, horrible images pressing in on him and filling him with blind fear.

Then suddenly, there was a cry from somewhere behind. But the voice was clear and most definitely elven, not the jagged, animalistic shrieks and howls of the orcs. The orc that held him was falling, and he with it, limbs tangled together and painfully twisted. He braced himself to spring to his feet and lash out at it, but it lay still, limp and clearly dead, its black blood gushing out into the dust from a yawning slash in its throat. He felt a hand in his, and there was Fingon, pulling him hurriedly to his feet and smiling, the sword in his hand running with that same black blood. Maeglin’s face, previously frozen in a mask of horror, relaxed into a cross between a smile and a grimace as pain shot through his shoulder and his muscles again. Fingon nodded at him, before spinning around to stab viciously upwards at a huge, clumsy, bow-legged creature that had loomed up behind them. The thing fell backwards with a muffled crash.

“Thank - ” Maeglin began.

“Do not thank me” said Fingon, grimacing. “Just… learn from this a lesson in looking behind you.”

“I will.” Maeglin felt a little dazed.

Fingon grinned. “I want you alive at the end of this, understood? We still need to have a proper talk, you and I.”

“Do not worry… uncle.” The word gave Maeglin a slight thrill. “I will be.”


End file.
